The Other Ida by Amy Mason Page B

confused but smiled blankly, then un-hooked the rope and ushered them through.
    Ida’s legs were shaking so much she was grateful for Bridie’s iron grip on her arm, and even for the stage-whispered instructions she was being given as cameras flashed and people shouted things she couldn’t understand.
    â€œSide on, remember your hips are wide, that’s it, smile, pose, smile, turn, pose. That’s enough.” Bridie put one hand on Ida’s back and pushed her along the rest of the carpet and through the door.
    â€œI’ll probably get Bryan Irons’ wife in the captions, I wouldn’t be surprised. This whole thing’s a farce.”
    Two women took their coats and they were handed flutes of Champagne by waiters who stood either side of the entrance in short rows. The lights were bright in the foyer, not dim like Bridie had said they’d be. A woman in a dark suit walked towards them. “Hi! You’re a bit late, if you wouldn’t mind coming straight through, Ms Adair, I’ll take you to your seat. The one next to you has been taken I’m afraid, we had to shift things around, but don’t worry, we’ll fit you in,” she said, looking at Ida.
    For one moment Ida wondered about popcorn before realising how hopelessly unsophisticated she was and feeling ashamed. They followed the woman through the doors into the dark cinema. There was a low mumble, broken by nervous laughs and at the front a band played some unfamiliar, sad music. It wasn’t like the Odeon in town, all concrete and neon signs. Instead it looked like a theatre, with cherubs and fancy carvings all over the walls. Ida struggled to walk in her shoes, hold her glass, and look for famous faces at the same time.
    â€œMs Adair, you’re in row G with Mike Saunders, and your daughter, well…” she scanned the crowd and Ida followed her eyes. There, in the row in front was the honey-coloured head she was looking for. Someone was whispering into her ear and she was laughing hard.
    â€œIf you don’t mind I think you may need to sit over there, you lucky girl.” She pointed to an empty seat, where a pale pink handbag was lying.
    â€œBut…”
    â€œDon’t be shy, excuse me,” the woman stepped forward and spoke to the people at the end of the row and they began to stand up, giving Ida no choice but squeeze past them to her seat.
    â€œI’m so sorry,” said Anna DeCosta, standing up and lifting her pink handbag off the seat as Ida brushed past her, pulling in her stomach as far as she could. “I didn’t think anyone was sitting there, here, sit down,” she patted the back of the chair. “What’s your name? I’m Anna, Annie to my friends. Nice shoes,” she whispered as Ida sat down, feeling very aware of her big hips, spotty chin and possible bad breath.
    â€œThanks. Yours are nice too.”
    â€œHa. Thanks. I wasn’t sure. At home they would hate it, boots at a premiere, but in Britain you can get away with more. A refill?” She lifted a bottle from between her feet and without asking filled up Ida’s glass.
    As soon as the opening credits began Ida could tell it was going to be different to the play. She had imagined a slow and serious film, quiet with lots of silences, but instead it opened in a loud, nasty disco, with shots of different almost naked people sweating and dancing and kissing. And then there she was, Anna – Other-Ida – sitting crying in the loo, wearing a waitress outfit with her hands over her ears, scared of the noise and the people and her sleazy boss.
    Ida could hardly breathe or blink and from the corner of her eye could see Anna’s perfect long fingernails, her little fingers resting on her leg. She hoped she was happy with the way it was going and with how she looked on screen.
    The scene changed. Other-Ida was going home from the club on the subway and there was no music now.